The Pen

I sat in my car under a tall birch tree whose yellow leaves

Rustled in a gusting breeze. A larch stood next to it, shorter

And mingled its branches into the birch. In that share-point

The sun, blinking, pushed through the leaves revealing

Its nimbus that was boring into the trees with the wind

Straining the long slender trunks of both

I’m writing this with an old snub-pointed pen with grit

In its push-button and pale blue ink like that of my fathers blue eyes